


Bedside Conversations

by Corvidology



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POI_fanworks challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24579904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvidology/pseuds/Corvidology
Summary: Written for the Exchange of Interest 2020.Small_hobbit specified no graphic sex or violence but I hope passing mentions of violence are alright.When Reese is injured again, he can't avoid talking.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 20
Kudos: 88
Collections: Exchange of Interest 2020





	Bedside Conversations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



They'd thrown him on the floor and stood there for a minute, breathing heavily. It had taken three of them to put him down even after he'd got stabbed and the one whose arm he'd broken was clutching it to his chest and wouldn't shut up. 

"Just let me kill him, come on Garner, look what he did to me. Just one to the back of the head, that's all—"

"Do it." He wasn't making it out of this basement alive. "I can't take any more whining."

Broken arm kicked him in the ribs. 

Probably not his smartest move but then none of this had been. Going after Royce without letting anyone else know? Stupid. 

"Leave it, Mark." Garner stepped in front of him as Mark went to kick him again. "Mr. Royce wants to speak to him." Garner stared down at him. "If he's still alive when he gets here. Let's go." He gestured at Mark. "Don, take him to get patched up. I'll go pick up Mr. Royce."

They retreated up the basement stairs, Mark whining all the way. They just didn't make henchmen like they used to. 

He dragged himself up and around so he could sit up against the wall, ripping his shirt to ball the material up and press it hard against his stab wound. He was probably better off dead before Royce got there, he had some unfortunate habits involving pliers and pokers, but if he could just hold on maybe he could at least take a chunk of Royce with him. He distracted himself from the pain by looking for ways out of the basement. 

The steel door they'd dragged him through had slide bolts on the outside so he wasn't getting out that way. The only other way in or out was a narrow window that was wedged open, rusted that way by the look of it, but even if he'd been able to reach it he'd have never fit through it. Waiting for Royce it was. 

He'd blacked out but was woken by a scuffling sound at the window. Bear wiggled through the small opening and dropped to the floor of the basement, rushing to lick his face. He didn't mind _Bear_ whining when he smelled his blood. 

Bear's presence was comforting but he couldn't let him stay. They'd shoot his dog from the top of the stairs before he could make a move and Bear wasn't going to die on his watch. He dragged himself over to the box under the window and patted the top of it. Bear jumped up on it and looked down at him expectantly. 

"Gaan!"

Bear did his best impersonation of a deaf dog. John pulled himself into a semi-standing position and repeated his command while pushing Bear up against the wall. "Gaan!"

Bear whined again but did as he was told, scrambling upwards towards the window as he pushed him up further. When he made it out of the window he turned again, like he was thinking of jumping back down. "Gaan, Bear!"

He watched Bear walk slowly away across the parking lot, tail between his legs, before slumping back onto the box. He had even less energy left to face Royce but Bear's safety was more important. When Finch finally realized he wasn't where he'd said he'd be and tracked the car, Bear would end up safe with family. 

He'd lost track of time, the light dying outside, as his blood seeped into the concrete. 

He woke up in the safe house hospital bed, Bear peering at him over the edge of it. He licked his hand and made a small woofing sound and Finch appeared behind him. 

"I was certain we'd lost you this time, Mr. Reese."

He tried to speak but ended up coughing instead, pain searing through the side of his chest. Finch adjusted the bed and helped him drink a glass of water, the best thing he'd ever tasted, just like it always was after getting stabbed or shot. 

"Did we get Royce?"

Finch sat down by the bed and began texting like his life depended on it. 

"Finch?"

"I'm letting Ms. Shaw know you're conscious in case she needs to check her handiwork."

He couldn't very well argue with that and he wasn't going anywhere anyway so he waited. And waited, fighting the urge to fall back asleep. 

Finally, Finch stood up and grabbed the water pitcher. 

"Finch!"

Finch stopped moving, still not meeting his eyes. "I'm just going to fill—"

"Answer my question."

"You shouldn't have gone in there alone!" Finch slammed the pitcher down on the bedside table, the little water left in it sloshing up over the side. 

Bear jumped up, ears back, pushing his head against Finch's leg. Finch sunk his hand into his fur, breathing deeply. 

When he spoke again, it was in his usual dry tone. "You could have been killed, John, and how would I go on—"

"Shaw." Finch didn't have to worry about it.

"What?"

"She'd pick up the numbers, no problem, though the kneecaps will be a hard sell."

"Kneecaps?" Finch stared at him unblinking for a minute and then let go of Bear and picked up the water pitcher again. "I better get a cloth and clean this up."

He was drifting off again but something was still pulling at him— "Royce, Finch, what about Royce?"

Finch didn't even turn around. "Royce is in the morgue, Garner's in the hospital, awake and cooperating, so Fusco's out hunting down the other two."

When he woke up again, he was alone. Or so he thought. 

The moment he started maneuvering to sit up, Bear got up off the floor and barked once. 

"Quiet." He petted Bear who sat there, tail wagging. 

When he tried moving again, clenching his teeth against the pain, Bear trotted over to the door and barked again. 

Finch appeared in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, drying his hands on a dish towel. "Stay right where you are, Mr. Reese. If you rip your stitches open I'll— Ms. Shaw will have my hide. Do you need to use the bathroom?"

"Yes." He needed to get up and stretch his legs and if he had to wrap an arm around Harold's shoulders to do so then he'd consider it a bonus.

"I'll bring you a bedpan."

Hell, no. "I just want to get up." He started to shift again, unable to completely stifle a pained gasp.

Finch lightly pressed a hand to his shoulder. "If I have to strap you to the bed, I will." 

And wasn't that one hell of a thing to think about? "I'll stay put. For now."

"And you're sure you don't need the bed—"

"I'm sure."

"Then I'll get back to making soup." 

Bear trotted back to sit by the bed again, his tail thumping against the floor. 

"Traitor!"

Bear grinned at him, tongue lolling out of his mouth, tail still wagging. 

His stitches were pulling and he was lightheaded but he'd have still got up if it wouldn't have upset— Bear. 

When he woke up again, Shaw was down on the rug rubbing Bear's belly but the moment he moved, Bear was up off the floor and licking his hand. 

He was sure his smirk had said it all when Shaw rolled her eyes at him.

"Do you need to piss?"

"No."

"You must by now. I get you don't want your boyfriend seeing you weak—"

"Not my boyfriend." If even Shaw could tell how he felt he was in big trouble. 

"Whatever." She moved to stand over him. "You're my patient so you have three choices. Bedpan or I walk you to the john."

"You said three."

"Didn't think you'd pick catheterization." 

She walked him to the john. 

He was pathetically tired by the time she got him settled back in bed and left, coming back with a tray with a double cheeseburger and fries and a small bowl of soup. Shaw swung the bedside table over his lap and put the soup and a spoon on it. 

"Or do you need me to feed you too?"

He glared at her and it was Shaw's turn to smirk as she settled into the armchair with the rest of the food, occasionally feeding Bear bits of burger and a few fries. 

He had to eat slowly to avoid spilling the soup down himself and Bear was a better conversationalist than both of them put together, but he'd had worse meals. He should thank her for saving his ass but neither one of them would have handled that well. 

"You done?"

He nodded and she stuffed the last of the fries into her mouth and swung the bedside table back around. She flipped back the sheet, pulled on latex gloves and none too gently removed the dressing covering his stitches. 

"Heard Royce ended up in the morgue."

"It was impressive." Shaw carefully examined his stitches while applying more antibiotic cream. "Clean shot right between his eyes." 

He respected her professionalism but he'd told Finch she'd take over when he died, so felt obligated to mention Finch's preference for not killing anyone. "It upsets Finch."

"Too bad." Shaw redressed his wound, gave him another shot of painkiller and pulled the sheets back up. 

"Look Shaw, if you could just—"

"No."

"No?"

"I'll work with you guys, even stitch you up when I have to but I'm not playing psychiatrist. If Finch can't handle killing someone then he better damn well learn."

She picked up the leash and clipped it to Bear's collar. "We're going out for some air. Won't be long, as Bear seems to feel you need supervision."

 _Harold?_ Harold had killed someone? "You didn't shoot Royce?"

"I should have checked you for concussion. If I'd done it, it wouldn't be impressive, just efficient."

When he woke up again, Harold was sitting in the armchair reading. 

"About Royce—"

Finch put his book down. "Fusco let me know they picked up the other two so that's an end to it." He stood up. "Let me get you some water—"

"Sit down, Finch."

Finch sat down. 

"Shaw told me about Royce." He struggled to sit up, waving Finch off when he moved to help him. "What were you thinking? Why didn't you wait for Shaw?"

Finch stared him down, lips narrowing. "I could ask you the same question."

"Because I know what I'm doing."

One quizzical eyebrow rose above Finch's glasses. "It certainly looks that way, Mr. Reese."

He crossed his arms, even though it pulled on his stitches. "I'll be fine in a few days."

"You're fine now but it's still going to take you weeks to recover from this stab wound."

 _Fine?_ "What do you—"

"When I located the car, Bear had dried blood on him. Blood. I checked him over, relieved that it wasn't his but then by a process of elimination..." Finch was standing so close he could see him trembling. "I took the gun you stash under the passenger seat and had Bear lead me to you. Garner was in my way so I shot him, took his gun and had Bear watch him. I made it to the top of the basement stairs in time to see Royce standing over you, ready to pull the trigger." Finch crossed his arms. "He left me no choice."

"You shot him between the eyes?" He knew it was juvenile but he mimicked drawing a bead with his hand anyway. 

"I was just trying to distract him."

"A bullet between the eyes will distract a man." He couldn't stop from smiling but he'd had a point to make and he was going to make it. "Don't ever do that again."

"I'm not sure I could. It was a lucky shot."

He wanted to kiss the answering smile right off Harold's face.

"Not what I meant and you know it." He grabbed hold of Harold's sleeve, pulling him closer. "Promise me you'll never risk your life for mine again."

"I will make no such promise. I don't want to shoot anyone but they left me no choice and I'd do it again, will do it again, to save you."

"I'm not important, Finch."

"You are to me."

"Then we're done. I can't lose anyone else I love." _Shit!_

Harold stared down at where he was gripping his hand though he didn't remember taking it. He tried to let go but it was Harold's turn to hold on tight. 

"Neither can I, John." 

He stared up at Harold, the truth plainly written on his face, wondering how he'd missed it before. He struggled to find the right words to tell him how he felt, to tell him how Harold had changed his life and restored his faith that there were still good people in the world. To tell him how much he loved him. 

"When did you learn to shoot?"

Harold's laugh startled Bear up off the floor as he leaned down, one hand on either side of John's head on the pillow. 

"Oh, John." Harold kissed him.

Maybe he wouldn't have to find the right words after all.


End file.
